


Service

by iyalode



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Outsider, Season 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 22:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iyalode/pseuds/iyalode
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The servants of Camelot resist in their own way</p>
            </blockquote>





	Service

**Author's Note:**

> Camelot gets taken over more times than a slow moving truck. I deeply suspect the servants have survival down to a fine art by now.

They run through the castle like wolves, stripping anything deemed of worth to the bone.

The older servants have seen it all before, “Keep your head down, boy. Don’t be giving them any reason to gut you,” they say. So Henri does as he’s told, counts himself lucky the bruises on his jaw and the broken nose will heal without scarring.

The serving girls are less fortunate, their scars are of a different kind.

Barely a day after Camelot’s fall he’s conscripted with others into carrying the dead to a field outside the walls and gathering wood.

The ash drifts upwards and is carried by the wind. Camelot is blanketed by her dead.

The King lives.  
The King is dead.  
The Witch Queen has an altar in her chambers made bloody by dark rituals.  
Rumours have life and coin of their own.

Our Merlin’s with the King. He’ll not leave his side the whispers say and sage heads nod around the kitchen.

Aye, Our Merlin will not falter, hasn’t before, won’t now.

“If the Witch Queen catches him,” Malcolm murmurs with a quick look towards the door. The following silence is telling.

Henri nods along with the others but his ignorance is vast, he cannot fathom as to what has earned a manservant, even one to the King, such enmity. Asking provides more answers than grains of salt.

Scorned her he did. Killed her lover. Killed her sister. Our Merlin is the King’s man and usurpers best beware (hints of darker unknown deeds committed in the Kings name).

It makes no sense and Henri’s never even spoken to the man in question, has a vague image of dark hair and _tallness_.

It is never more obvious that he is but a fourteen year old serving boy ignorant in the game of thrones.

 

Outright defiance is madness of course but if Cook’s bread is harder than usual and the meat underdone then “That lot won’t be knowing no difference, animals the lot of ‘em,” she sniffs in disdain.

The sheets and reeds are changed with less regularity, the bathing water barely warm (tis a long way from the kitchen, my lord) and chamber pots left to linger until the stench cannot be denied.

One day Henri wakes early, wanders into the storage room to find Malcolm stuffing scrolls into a clay pot. Malcolm hasn’t seen and such things are not for serving boys to know, Henri backs out slowly and says nothing.

The servants of Camelot are a resistance of silent unseen shadows.

 

Henri wakes to the clash of steel and screams of rage.

He huddles in the servant quarters with the others until the battle finds them and then he runs.

He runs in fear and without thought, bare feet scampering over stone and heart pounding thumpthumpthump in his chest. He seeks sanctuary in a place where none can be found and stumbles into the battle, stares horrified as the scarlet of Camelot falls at his feet.

He carries no weapon and that bothers the Witch Queen’s men not at all, Henri is in their way and for that he will die.

Only Henri is lifted up and thrown to the side and such is his fear he never even felt the hand. Eyes wide he can only watch the clash of blades as the fight rages in front of him and death is not hard to come by these days in Camelot. One. Two. The Witch Queen’s men fall and for now Henri is alone with this stranger.

Who wears no armour of a knight, yet he carries a sword. Blood splatter starkly evident on a pale empty face and eyes of the purest sapphire blue. He is both terrifying and beautiful to behold.

“Well,” he says, cold features drifting into concerned curiosity. “Let’s get you out of the way then, yes? This is no place for you. Henri, isn’t it?”

Henri nods, his words stilled by fear. And receives a tired smile in return, “I’m Merlin.”

“The King’s man?”

That earns Henri a blink of surprise and a wider smile.

“Yes, when he’s not doing idiotic things like running off without me.” Henri’s left with an impression this happens more often than it should and the King will soon hear of it, loudly and with much scolding.

“I. I don’t. I don’t know where I am. I don’t.”

‘Tch, I believe,” Merlin kicks open a door. “Ah, Lord Belen’s chambers. Perfect. Man’s bigger than horse and twice as wide, best wardrobe to hide a lost servant boy in bar none and believe me, I’m something of an expert on hiding in wardrobes.”

And thus, Henri spends the battle of retaking Camelot hiding in Lord Belen’s chambers until morning and Merlin is indeed correct. Lord Belen’s wardrobe is large enough for a lost servant boy.


End file.
